


After This Age

by xahra99



Series: Crusade [9]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Childhood, Coming of Age, Complete, Drama, Gen, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:59:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xahra99/pseuds/xahra99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malik and Kadar are sent to join the Assassins, and come of age. Prequel to the first Assassin's Creed game, and a story in seven chapters. Jossed to Jerusalem and back by the novels, of course, but hey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a prequel to the first AC game, but ignores the AC novels for the simple reason that I started writing AC fanfiction before the books were released. Can be read alone, or as part of my epic Malik-centric Crusades series. Enjoy.

After This Age

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

"Let those who shall come after this age and era know the extent of the mischief they wrought and the confusion they cast into the heart of men... It was a cup that had been filled to overflowing; it seemed as if a wind had died. This is a warning to those who reflect; may God do likewise to all tyrants."

-Ata-Malik al-Juvaini, _History of the World Conquerer_ , epitaph to the last Assassin Grand Master.

 

" _La shay'haqiqah, koulo shay'moumkin_." (Nothing is true, but everything is permitted.)

-Assassin's Creed.

 

Chapter One.

_Syria. 1174_

The men in white picked their way up the gully.  Their pale robes looked like three scraps of wool against the red rocks. Malik al-Sayf might not even have noticed them if he hadn't been on the lookout for lost sheep.

He shaded his eyes and watched as the three men scrambled over fallen rocks worn smooth by winter floods.  They climbed between tall pinnacles that rose to stab the faded sky like knives of stone. Malik's grandfather had been famous for his skills in the mountains, but even Seid al-Sayf could not have moved as deftly as these men. 

Malik whistled once.  As the echoes died away he heard a series of protesting bleats. Kadar pushed his way through the Al-Sayf clan's small herd of sheep and flopped on his belly beside Malik. Asif, their long-eared old ram, raised his head and glared at Kadar with yellow lozenge-shaped eyes. The other sheep ignored Kadar. It was Malik's job to herd the sheep. Their mother only sent Kadar along to keep him out of trouble.

 "What?" Kadar asked.

Malik jerked his head towards the valley.

Kadar squinted down the gully. His face screwed up with concentration. He looked for a long time. Malik was about to sigh and point the men out to Kadar when his brother said "They're fast."

Malik snorted. A sheep raised its head in alarm and Malik clicked his tongue to calm the ewe before he replied. "They're Assassins. They're supposed to be fast."

"Why are they here?" 

Malik had no idea. Loath to admit to his younger brother than he didn't know, he fell back on the one thing that he _did_. "It's not time for the tithe. They came in the spring." 

Kadar glanced over his shoulder at the quietly grazing sheep. "We can't lose more of the flock!"

"We won't," Malik reassured him. The sheep were one of the few things their family had of value.  But he couldn't imagine what the Assassins were here for if _not_ the sheep.

"Let's hide," Kadar said.

"Let's not," said Malik. "They'll want us at the camp." He peered cautiously down from their eyrie at the Assassins. The white-clad men did not pause. They continued up the gully, climbing nimbly as lizards over the tumbled rocks. They made no sound at all, though Malik listened hard. The sheep cropped gently at the grass around the brothers and a bee droned past in a futile search for wildflowers. This late in summer, the only things growing were thorns and oleander, and there wasn't even much of that to go around. It had not been a good year.

Kadar crawled on his belly to the very edge of the rock. Malik watched the Assassins over Kadar's shoulder and got ready to grab his brother by the ankle if he slipped. "They don't look like the men in the tales."

Malik shrugged. "Nothing does." 

Everyone who lived near Masyaf told tales of the Assassins, and the al-Sayf clan, as in many other things, was no exception to the rule. Assassin stories were best told on long winter nights, when the stars shone brightly and the earth was hard as a Frankish heart.  It had taken Malik a while to connect the killers in his father's tales with the men who came up the pass every few years to take a sheep in tithe to the Old Man of the Mountain, but he'd got there in the end. Nothing else Malik had ever seen in his nine years had lived up to his father's stories.

"Do you think they're here to kill someone?"

Malik shrugged. "Not us."

"How'd you know that?" 

"Haven't you listened to the stories?" Malik said. "They only kill evil men."

Kadar looked unconvinced. "I'm _nearly_ a man."

Malik snorted. "Asif is more a man than you."

" _Ibn in kalb_!"

"That's your mother too, fool." 

Kadar jumped onto Malik's back. It was a short and showy fight, as all the al-Sayf brothers' were. Malik won. He slammed Kadar face-down in the dirt and asked "Enough?"

"Yes!" Kadar spluttered, his voice muffled by a mouthful of dead grass, sand and sheep shit.

Malik relaxed his grip on his brother's throat. "Where did you learn that from? The caravans? You know they don't teach anything worth knowing."

Kadar snarled and pushed Malik away. "You're only two years older! Why do you always win?"

Malik shrugged. "Maybe I'll teach you, when you're old enough."

Kadar rubbed at his cheek and held his tongue. It was the most sensible thing he had done all day.

Malik used the time to count the flock. He picked his staff from the stones and ran his index finger down the stick to count the notches carved into the wood. There was one long notch for each five sheep, and a short mark for any extra. He scanned the rocks for the distinctive brown and white fleeces of his mother's herd. All the sheep were there, so he glanced back down into the valley.

There were no Assassins to be seen.

Malik leaned far out from the rocks, but the valley was empty for as far as he could see. The Assassins had already left the gorge. And there was only one way they could have gone.

Malik got to his feet, frantically brushing red dust from his robe. "We have to go."

Kadar leant out past Malik and shaded his eyes with his hand. Their mother always called Malik the smartest of her sons, but Kadar had the keenest eyes. He could always spot a lost lamb before the eagles found it. Sharp vision was a useful skill to have in the mountains, even if Malik often had to fetch the sheep from whatever ledge it had clambered on. 

"Do you see them?"

"No," Kadar shook his head. "They're not there. Where do you think-"

"Take a guess," Malik snapped.

 The brothers turned from the ledge together and tried to gather the flock. The sheep flapped their drooping ears and skittered along the rocks in panic. The more the brothers tried to hurry, the more the flock scattered.  The sheep were always obstinate at the best of times, and they were at their worst when they thought they were being rushed.

They reached their family's camp just after the Assassins. Asif bawled his head off in protest at their hasty descent. One of the ewes was lame and both brothers were covered in red dust from the top of their heads to the soles of their bare feet. Malik braced himself for a sharp word from their mother as they skidded to a halt but she just nodded and said "Boys, put the sheep round the back."

Malik took the flock round the back of the camp to the mud-brick compound that protected the flock from the bandits and jackals that came at night.  The sheep were tired from their headlong rush down the mountain and went in to the compound easily. Malik shoved the barricade of thorns across the gate so fast he cut himself.

When he returned to the courtyard Kadar was still standing there staring at the strangers. Malik didn't blame him. The Assassins wore mail shirts and leather under their white robes. They carried swords and wore belts of throwing knives the way other men wore sashes. The gleam of sunlight on steel was brighter than anything Malik had ever seen.

"Is your husband well?" asked the tallest of the Assassins.

"Very well," Malik's mother said. Fahim Al-Sayf had coughed himself to death that winter, but it was not polite to speak ill of the dead. Her voice was very soft but she held her back straight despite the red dust that stained her skirts. The Assassins kept a respectful distance. It was a man's job to speak, but Sa'ad, the eldest son, was only twelve. 

"Your order prospers?"

"It does well enough," said the Assassin.

"Then you've been favoured."

"As have you." 

"It has been a long time," Malik's mother said quietly, "since we considered ourselves blessed."

The Assassins' gaze flickered across the threadbare tent, the pitifully small herd of sheep and the holes in their clothes. Malik was ashamed, and then he was interested. The Assassins visited every few years. They never said much and they never took long. They took their sheep and left.

"You have been blessed with children," the Assassin said at last. "How many?"

"Nine." Malik's mother said. "Four girls and five boys."

"A blessing and a curse."

She inclined her head." Just so."

 Malik noticed that Maryam had loosened one of the tent flaps to peer at the strangers. He saw the gleam of eyes beneath the felt and heard one of the girls laugh.

"Their names?" the Assassin asked and Malik realised that he was asking after them. His mother sighed.

"Sa'ad," she said, brushing her hand against Sa'ad's shoulder in a possessive gesture that said _not this one_. "My second son is Zayd," She pointed to Zayd, who was crouching with his back against the tent and trying hard to look inconspicuous. "This is Malik, and Kadar. My youngest is Hasan." She stroked her youngest son's hair as he clutched at her skirts.

It took Malik far longer than he should have done to realise that the Assassins weren't here for the sheep. The al-Sayf clan could spare more sons than sheep. Fewer sons meant more sheep to go around.

"Two?" the Assassin asked softly.

Malik's mother nodded. "Choose them companions," she said, "give them good names, and teach them the Creed. That's all I ask."

"Malik," one of the other Assassins said. "That's a good name for a fighter." 

Their mother nodded. Malik was mesmerised by the bright steel and the terrible, hopeful look in his mother's eyes.  He did not protest as the Assassin pointed to him and turned to his older brother Zayd.

Zayd coughed.

Malik recognised the sound. It was the same deep, hacking cough their father had suffered for seasons, the same cough that had killed him that winter. Malik's mother winced. The Assassin hesitated. His eyes flicked from Zayd to Kadar and back again. "They're healthy?"

She nodded, her attention already focused on Zayd's trembling shoulders. The Assassin regarded Malik and Kadar like Malik's father had used to examine a sheep he wished to buy. Malik half-expected the Assassin to check their teeth.

"You, and you," the Assassin said at last, pointing at Malik and Kadar. "You're with us."

Malik took a step towards the tent, and hesitated, torn between his family and the Assassins. Kadar grabbed him around his waist and held on tightly. Their mother bowed her head.

"If they can't learn our ways, they'll be sent back," said the Assassin.

Malik saw his mother's lips tighten in dismay. She swallowed, and turned to Malik as Hasan tugged at her skirts. "A mother gives her child nothing better than a good education," she said to Malik and Kadar. She was only steps away but her voice was already distant. Malik felt as if a canyon had opened up between them; wider than the gorge below and much more deep. "I would have sent you to your uncle, but his family is doing no better than us, and they have enough mouths to feed. Listen to the Assassins. Do as they tell you. Follow the Creed."

"The Creed?" Malik asked.

"You'll be Assassins," their mother told them, while the Assassins themselves looked on with an expression that Malik would later interpret as _'or die trying_.' "Kadar, you pay attention. Malik, look after your brother."

Kadar gasped. Malik knew his brother would soon burst into tears, and he shoved Kadar hard between the shoulder-blades. Kadar stumbled and glared at him; his anger transferred from their mother to Malik. He wiped his eyes but did not cry. Malik was grateful for that, if nothing else.

 _It is better to make Kadar angry than let him disgrace himself in front of strangers_ , he thought.

"Follow me," said the Assassin.

Malik tugged Kadar after him. "Where are we going?"

The Assassin looked back over his shoulder at them, "Masyaf," he said.

They made much worse time descending the gully than the Assassins had made climbing up. Malik looked back once, his arm tight around Kadar's shoulder, but the black tent was lost in the shadows of the gully, and the walls of their compound were the same colour as the stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch1:  
> Ata-Malik al-Juvaini: Persian historian (1226-1283) a historian in the employ of the Mongols who wrote an account of the Mongol conquest of the Assassins. It's fair to say that he was slightly biased against them.  
> Ibn in kalb -son of a bitch. This is not a smart thing to say, but Kadar doesn't think sometimes.  
> Fahim al-Sayf is Malik and Kadar's father in the novel canon. I chose to keep the name while disregarding nearly everything else.  
> Malik al-Sayf-lit 'king of the sword'. Kadar, apparently, means 'powerful'


	2. Chapter 2

After This Age

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

Chapter Two,

_Syria, 1174._

 

The Assassins soon left the paths that Malik knew and headed north on trails far less familiar. Kadar did not speak a word to anyone until after the sun had reached its zenith, and then he only said "I have to piss."

The closest Assassin nodded and let Kadar go behind a rock. Malik waited. When Kadar did not return quickly he excused himself as well and followed his brother's footprints around the boulder and into a small canyon.

He found Kadar at the end of the canyon, half-hidden behind the purple blossoms of an oleander bush. The narrow gorge had been formed by winter floods. At the end of the canyon was a place where years of flowing water had broken down the red stone walls. In winter it would have been a waterfall. As it was midsummer, the canyon was as dry as old bones.

Kadar had pulled himself to sit on the waist-high ledge. He turned as Malik approached, pointed to the horizon and said "Malik! Look!"

"What?" Malik went to join his brother. He leaned his elbows on the rocky ledge and looked out. He saw nothing but bare red mountains.

"I can still see the mountains from here!" Kadar said. He sounded happy for the first time since they'd left the camp. "Let's go. We can go home."

Malik sighed. "We can't."

"We _can_. It won't take long. We'll be back by morning!"

"We _can't._ "

"I want to see Hasan and Maryam. Asif will miss me. I want to go home!"

"Kadar, _we can't_ ," Malik caught at his brother's sleeve as Kadar tried to clamber up over the ledge. The ragged fabric ripped. Kadar squirmed away, but he was not fast enough. Malik picked him up by the waist, lifted him down bodily and pushed him against the canyon wall. "Don't you understand? We can't go home. They'll only send us back. _Ummu_ only sent us away because she had to."

Kadar tensed. He tried to break away but Malik held him firmly by the shoulders.  "You're lying!" he snarled. He thrashed and beat his fists against Malik's chest. "I hate you! I want to go home!"

Malik let his brother struggle. Kadar was too close to him to cause much damage, and Malik wasn't sure that he did not deserve the blows.  "Shut up," he hissed. "Shut up. They'll hear you."

Kadar slumped in Malik's arms, and he began to howl.  His shoulders shook and his body tensed and tears and snot dripped from his face. He left go of Malik and slid to the red gravel on the canyon's floor. " _Ummu_ told you to look after me."

"I know." Malik sat down beside his brother and wrapped his arms around Kadar's thin shoulders. "I'm _trying_."

Kadar's voice was a muffled wail of misery. "Malik, I don't want to be an Assassin." He curled up against the sun-warmed rock, bony elbows balanced on his knees and his chin slumped against his chest so that only a pair of red-rimmed eyes and a shock of tangled black hair showed over his crossed arms. Tears streaked his face.

Malik shrugged. "You don't get a choice," he told Kadar. Kadar instantly went rigid against him, and Malik wondered for a moment what he had said. It took him longer than it should have done to check the mouth of the canyon.

One of the Assassins stood silhouetted between the red rocks walls. It was hard to see the Assassin's expression clearly beneath the white hood of his robe, but his voice was neutral. "It's getting late. We must be on our way."

Kadar inhaled sharply. Malik got up, scraping his back against the rough sandstone, and was relieved when Kadar followed his lead. He held his brother's hand tightly as they followed the Assassin back to the trail. The other two Assassins were waiting as patiently as stones beside the boulder. Behind them the setting sun stained the mountains the colour of henna and saffron. The sky was a pale, fragmented blue. There was no camp in sight, and Malik noticed that none of the Assassins carried a pack.

" _Sayyid_ , where will we spend the night?" he asked the closest Assassin as they began to walk.

The Assassin shrugged. Malik expected him to say 'As God wills' like most people he knew did when faced with a problem, but instead the Assassin just said "We'll find somewhere."

When the sun was a thin line of honey-gold against black peaks they reached another shepherd's camp. The people there were herders like the al-Sayf clan, with just as many children, but they had three tents instead of one and a large herd of fat-tailed sheep. They greeted the Assassins like lost family, invited them into the camp to spend the night and slaughtered a sheep in their honour.

Malik and Kadar sat under the coarse woollen tent-flaps after the meal was done and watched the sun slide behind the mountains. The evening prayer time had passed without anybody mentioning the fact, and everybody in the tent behind them was already asleep. Malik had expected that the fest would drag on long into the night-most herders saw few guests and valued news highly.  Travellers were never allowed to rest until they'd told their hosts everything they knew.

Malik wondered if the herding family didn't _want_ to know what the Assassins knew. He tucked his bare feet beneath the hem of his robe as the stone around them grew colder and watched the sun set in strange skies.

"I don't like it here," Kadar said unhappily beside him. "It's different."

Malik shrugged. "They fed us well," he pointed out. The sheep had been a small one, but there had been plenty to go around, and the mutton had been followed by rice soaked with butter. There had been no butter at home, and precious little rice.

"The food was good," Kadar agreed. He pressed close to Malik, shivering, and Malik threw his arm around his brother's shoulders. "But it's not home.  Do you think we'll go back?"

"Not unless we fail," said Malik. None of his father's tales mentioned what happened to failed Assassins. Malik didn't think it was anything good.

"Did we do something wrong?"

Malik shook his head. "It's supposed to be an honour."

Kadar rested his chin in his hands and stared out at the sky. "It doesn't feel like one," he said in a small voice.

Malik would have given anything at that moment to wake wrapped in woollen blankets in his family's camp. He also knew that admitting this to Kadar would not make either of their lives any easier. If the Assassins didn't catch them, then their mother would be required by honour to send them both straight back. There was no point trying to leave, but he didn't want to go into the still tent to sleep with strangers, despite the cold.

He sighed. "Shall we sleep out here tonight? I'll go and find some blankets."

Kadar looked at the tent, and at Malik, and nodded. Malik crawled back under the tent-flaps. The tent was dark, but it was a comforting, warm darkness that reminded him of their family's tent at home. The floor was strewn with sleeping bodies. A dog barked on the other side of the tent and Malik heard a baby cry sleepily in answer. A woman's voice hushed the child with a song Malik did not recognise.

He crept past them all, bare feet silent on the rugs, over to where a couple of blankets lay piled against one wall.  The blankets were heavy and hard for Malik to lift alone. As he pressed them to his chest they gave off familiar smells of wood-smoke, wool and the faint scent of faded dyes.

Malik buried his face in the blankets and did his best not to cry. He wanted his brothers, his sisters, their dogs and their songs. Not a tent full of strangers and a cold night's sleep on rocks out in the open.

But he had to be strong. He had to look after Kadar.

Malik gulped back his tears and hoped that the small sound would go unnoticed in the quiet darkness of the tent. Once he felt that he could trust himself to move silently he weaved between the sleeping family and ducked back under the tent-flaps. A quick glance around was enough to tell him that he'd come out under the tent just around the corner from where he'd left Kadar.

He stepped out into the starlight and saw the Assassin.

Malik froze. He pulled the blankets closer to his chest and hoped that the Assassin had not seen him. The man sat on a tall pile of rocks to Malik's left. His head was turned away, watching the trail that led to the compound. Malik was sure he made no sound, but the Assassin snapped his head around. The shadows beneath the Assassin's peaked hood obscured his face.

Malik barely dared to breathe. He hoped that the Assassin did not think he was stealing the blankets, but he was far too terrified to say anything. The Assassins in his father's tales had possessed near-supernatural speed, strength and cunning. They could stalk men by night, kill with a blow and run across the mountains without dislodging a single stone. As Malik stared into the darkness beneath the Assassin's hood, he believed every story he had ever heard.

The Assassin did not say a word. He simply nodded at Malik, turned his head and went back to watching the trail. There was no sign of the other two men. Malik wondered if the other Assassins were asleep with the family in the tent, or whether they too kept watch, and where.

Malik took a deep breath of cold air before he turned his back on the Assassin and went back to Kadar. He had worried that his brother would wander off or try to leave the compound but Kadar was right where Malik had left him, shivering and pressed against the sagging black wool walls of the tent for warmth. He looked up as Malik approached and said "You took a long time."

Malik threw the blanket at Kadar and sat down beside his brother, wrapping himself in the warm folds of the blanket until only his face showed. "You can get them, next time. Now go to sleep."

Kadar folded his blanket in half and lay down on the stones beside Malik. "I won't sleep," he said, and immediately settled down to doze.

Malik sat up and thought. He watched the stars and crescent moon rise above the mountains and thought that he would never sleep. He must have dozed eventually, because he woke to Kadar poking him in the ribs.

"You're awake? Good? We need to go."

As Malik crawled out from under the tent-flaps he saw all three Assassins speaking with the herder's family.  None of the men looked tired. Any of them could have been the watcher in the night. Their conversation was animated, and Malik wondered what they were talking about.

He found out soon enough, when they left and took the herder's youngest son with them. The boy wailed like a lost lamb as they walked away. The mourning cries of women echoed from the compound.

"It's like they think he's died." Kadar said in a hushed voice to Malik as they walked past a pasture of scorched grass and stunted trees. There was still more pastures here than at the al-Sayf camp. Malik could not help thinking that his family would not have given sons away if they had lived in such a place.

"He should be quiet," Malik snapped, "and stop making such a fuss." He spoke loudly, so that the herder's boy would hear. The boy sniffed and said nothing, but one of the Assassins caught Malik a blow around the head that made his teeth rattle. He fell silent.

 

The boy they had collected hiccupped. "God gives us nothing that we cannot bear," he said thickly.  His eyes were swollen with tears he was doing his best to blink back.

"Not the will of any god," said one of the Assassins, "but the will of Al Mualim."

Kadar frowned, "Al Mualim's real?" he said. "Our father told stories about him."

The Assassin nodded. "Most certainly. Did you think the Assassins were tales too?"

"We know about the Assassins." Malik said sulkily.

"You'll learn more," the Assassin said "when you get to Masyaf."

Malik wanted to ask how long they would be travelling, but the herder's boy spoke first. "When will we get to Masyaf?"

"Tonight, if fortune wills it," said the Assassin, and turned back to the trail with a grunt and a manner that brooked no further questions.

The landscape changed as they travelled on. The scrubby trees gave way to tall poplars and tiny meadows of green grass; dust-choked canyons were replaced by tiny streams of clear water. They saw a few more tents, and then houses-real houses built of the same rocks as the mountains. And then they saw the town, and behind it, the great fortress of Masyaf.

The castle was like nothing Malik had ever seen. It rose from the rock in a great wedge of stone, topped by a gilded dome that gleamed as brightly as the Assassins' blades. The Orontes gorge cut a deep scar around three sides of the fortress. The castle's main gateway loomed like an open maw above a sloping hillside covered in small houses and surrounded by a high wall of wooden palings.

The herder's boy gazed at their surroundings and opened his mouth to ask more questions. Malik kept his mouth closed, and watched.  He couldn't have spoken if he had tried. There was just too much to take in.

The boy tugged on Malik's sleeve. "My name is Rauf," he whispered."Son of Ismail, from the valley near the rocks shaped like a lion's mouth. What's yours?"

"Kadar," Kadar said, and Malik."

Malik nodded. He wasn't sure yet if he liked the boy, but at least he was from the mountains like them. The people here were strange, and there were far too many of them. To Malik's surprise, few of the Masyaf villagers were Assassins. There were women, men and children of every age, more than he had ever imagined, all bustling about like ants on tasks of their own. None of them paid the slightest attention to the boys and their escort. Malik stayed close to the Assassins and worried that he would lose them in the crowds and never find them again.

"Are you going to be Assassins, too?" Rauf's eyes shone as he gazed up at the castle wall that loomed above them.

"I think so." Kadar said.

"Maybe it's our fate," said Rauf, cheerily. 

Malik shrugged. Their father had believed in fate, but the fate he believed in was the sort where great _sayyids_ always recognised their own heirs in disguise or the brave prince always married his princess despite all that evil men could do to stop him. He had a feeling that the Assassins believed in a different kind of fate. Perhaps he was destined to become an Assassin, but it was a long strange road from a boy from the Orontes and six generations of sheepherders.

One of the Assassins looked over his white-robed shoulder at the boys. "This way," he said."Don't fall behind."

Malik, Rauf and Kadar hurried to keep up. The path wound upwards through the village as steeply as a waterfall. The Assassins seemed not to notice the incline. The boys did. When Kadar began to lag behind, Malik hoisted his brother onto his back and hurried after them. His feet ached, and the stones underfoot were sharp. Everyone here wore boots, or at least sandals.  

It was a long way to the citadel itself, and Malik soon began to struggle. Rauf offered to take over and Kadar climbed onto his back without a murmur while Malik struggled to catch his breath. There were steep ramps and flights of steps and courtyards raised above the level of the ground. Every time they reached one Malik was sure that they had at last reached the castle gates, and every time they reached a courtyard the Assassins hurried on up yet another path, their white-robed backs rapidly retreating until Malik and Rauf practically had to run to keep up. When Rauf flagged, Kadar slid from his back and struggled on with them. It felt like a victory when they reached the castle gates at the same time as the Assassins.

The tallest of the three Assassins nodded to one of the guards. "Husayn."

The guard smiled. "Umar! Safety and peace, brother. What do you bring us?" He looked down at Malik and Rauf, and then further down at Kadar.  "New recruits?"

The Assassin laughed. "If you can call them that."

"Know nothing, do they?"

"Only how to say their prayers and tell good coin from bad," the Assassin said. "Same as the rest."

The guard Husayn shrugged. "They don't sound promising." He bent down towards Kadar and asked him "Can you read?"

There were no books in the mountains. Kadar shook his head.

"Fight?"

Kadar looked uncertainly at the four heavily armed men. He shook his head again.

Husayn straightened up, laughing. "Ali and Ismail will have their work cut out."

"Then the sooner they get started, the better," said the Assassin Umar. He beckoned. "Boys, follow me,"

They followed the Assassin into a wide courtyard in front of the keep and over to a small fenced arena where several white-robed boys were practising swordplay with varying degrees of success. They were watched sternly by an Assassin wearing chain-mail covered by a white tabard.

"Ali?" the Assassin Umar said, "I have some novices for you."

"Then I hope that they are better than the last ones that you brought me," the Assassin Ali said. He turned away from the struggling boys and stared down his nose at Malik, Kadar and Rauf. 

Umar shrugged. "When a sword fails, is it the fault of the iron, or of the smith that forged it?"

Ali sniffed. "Either," he said, "or none." He beckoned to Malik. "Your names, boy?"

"Malik Al-Sayf," Malik said, "and Kadar al-Sayf, and Rauf ibn Ismail, from the valley by the rocks shaped like a lion's mouth." 

Ali raised his eyebrows.  "Really? Then listen well." He jabbed a scarred hand at his chest. "I am the _dai_ Ali, the novice-master of Masyaf." He pointed at the great wedge of stone that was the keep, "This is Masyaf. It is your home." He pointed at the white-robed boys who battled in the circle. "And these are your brothers. You _will_ become Assassins." He paused. "It will take much work."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch2  
> I once spent a very pleasant night in the mountains in Turkey camped out beneath the eaves of a black goats-wool tent. The top of the tent is pulled out with stakes, leaving a small ledge for the rain to run off that's more than wide enough to sleep under if the weather happens to be dry.  
> Sayyid: lord  
> The name Rauf means compassionate. Rauf is the trainer in the first AC game. He frequently finds that his students have forgotten what it means to wield a blade, and asks Altaïr to teach them.  
> The Assassin Umar who collects Malik and Kadar from the camp is actually Altaïr's father.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik meets Altair.

After This Age

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

Chapter Three,

_Masyaf, 1174._

"Today," said _dai_ Ismail, "you will learn how to kill."

Malik stood in line with the other Assassin novices. The sun-bleached stone of the fortress walls was pleasantly warm against his spine. The heat eased the muscles of his back and shoulders, which still ached after a morning of wall climbing and heavy weapons practice. Rauf stood on Malik's right and Kadar on his left. Kadar's back was as straight as he could manage, but Malik could tell his brother was exhausted from the dark smudges beneath his eyes.

 _Dai_ Ismail's head snapped around like a hunting hawk. "Assassins stand up properly, Malik. Do not _slouch_."

Malik eased off the wall and straightened up. Only his mind disobeyed. He knew he should have felt excitement at the prospect of a kill but instead all he felt was a numb weariness and the hollow hope that it wouldn't involve too much physical exertion. The only thing he wanted to kill right now was _dai_ Ismail.

"We have begun to teach you the sword," _dai_ Ismail continued, "but the knife is the true weapon of an Assassin. To kill with a knife you must put yourself in danger. You must be close enough to see the soul leave a man's eyes." He paused. "If I had my way, you would start with a man, but we do not have an infinite supply of men. So you shall start with sheep." He waved his hand in the direction of the Assassins' small armoury. "Collect your knives and follow me. One knife each."

Malik, Rauf and Kadar followed the other novices to the Assassin armoury, where knives had been laid out on a carpet on the floor. They were cheap weapons, crude by Assassin standards, with short curved blades and leather-wrapped hilts. Malik hung back, examining the other weapons displayed upon the walls or in long racks against the walls. The other recruits squabbled over the blades.

The armoury was impressive by any man's standards, and more so by Malik's. There were swords chased with silver with blades of Damascus steel, belts of throwing daggers as long as his forearm and knives with curved blades that looked sharp enough to slice the air.

The pile of daggers _dai_ Ismail had prepared was quickly vanishing, so Malik tore his eyes away from the expensive blades. He picked up a small knife from the blanket and handed one to Kadar. They went back out into the sun and followed _dai_ Ismail down to the small compound against the walls that was usually reserved from weapons practice. The training ring was full of sheep; small, shaggy dark creatures like the al-Sayf clan's own herd. 

The _dai_ waited until the last novice had entered the courtyard. He cast a scathing glare over the small group. "Does every novice have a knife?"

The boys shuffled nervously. A few held up skinny arms to display their blades. Kadar looked uncertainly at Malik, and Malik put his hand on the flimsy fence, and wondered how they expected the fence to keep any sheep in for long.

 _Dai_ Ismail nodded, cleared his throat and spat upon the flagstones. "You shall be Assassins," he told them "and you shall fight many men. Every foe is different. You shall study soldiers as a hunter tracks his prey and you shall learn all their ways. The ways of sheep are few in number but I do not doubt they shall prove challenging for you at first." He spread his arms. "Altaïr," he said, "demonstrate."

The novice called Altaïr stood slightly apart from the rest of the group. He raised his knife, vaulted the fence with casual grace and headed towards the cornered sheep.

Malik realized three things rather quickly. Firstly, that Altaïr was more skilled with a blade than any of the novices. Secondly, that, skilled as he was, he was not used to herding sheep. Thirdly, that the sheep knew it. 

The herd reacted as they had for centuries. They made Altaïr look as foolish as an untrained pup. They parted like water as he ran towards them and closed seamlessly behind him after they had let him through. When Altaïr dodged one way, the sheep ran the other.

Somebody sniggered. _Dai_ Ismail cast a scathing glare over the small group, but said nothing. This silence surprised Malik at first- _dai_ Ismail was not usually so lenient-but he had gathered from the other novices that Altaïr was not popular. He was too arrogant and all too willing to point out the faults of those less skilled than him. Watching him skid in sheep-shit was funny.

They all watched as Altaïr pinned a sheep, panting, and cut its throat with no hesitation and far less effort than he had expended on actually catching the sheep in the first place. The rest of the flock bleated nervously and pressed into a corner as far away from Altaïr as they could get.

 _Dai_ Ismail sighed. "Now _you_ kill them," he said.

The whole courtyard dissolved into a mass of shouting, knife-wielding boys. The sheep stampeded in panic.

Malik climbed cautiously over the fence. He flicked his fingers behind his back out of _dai_ Ismail's sight and Kadar followed him as nonchalantly as if he had not been waiting for the signal. Together they singled out a sheep whose fleece was slightly paler then the rest. Malik waited until Kadar had moved in front of the herd to cut them off until he stepped into the flock and caught the sheep by its bottom jaw. As he did so, he slammed into the flank of a second, slightly smaller sheep. It cannoned into the fence and bounced off the flimsy planks into Kadar's belly. Both boy and sheep skidded to the ground, but Malik was pleased to see that his brother kept hold of the sheep's horns. He looked around for Rauf. The herder's boy had already caught his own animal; although Malik noticed that he was having problems keeping it still.

He turned his attention back to the task in hand. The sheep struggled, eyes wide, pinned against Malik's body. It took all his strength to hold the panicking animal as he hooked the fingers of his left hand behind the sheep's front teeth, bent its head towards its tail until it nearly touched his thigh and neatly slit the animal's throat. The sheep sank to its knees as blood soaked its fleece and ran in rivers down Malik's new boots to the earth. 

Malik looked round for Kadar. His little brother had pinned his sheep against the palings and was busy mimicking Malik's move. The sheep tossed its head as it died. Blood sprayed from a severed vessel and sprinkled Kadar's head and shoulders with scarlet flecks that smelt of iron. The smell reminded Malik of festival days and feasting, of lamb and rice golden with butter.

He turned his attention back to his own animal just in time to see the sheep die. Its eyes fixed on a spot on the far horizon as its body shuddered and sagged. Malik dropped the sheep to the ground and wiped his knife on its fleece.  He looked up.

Novices and sheep raced and wrestled. Altaïr crouched over his kill with a scowl on his face in the middle of the chaos. The terrified animals trampled the floor of the practice ring into blood and shit-soaked mud. A few of the novices had managed to slaughter their animals.   One boy whose name Malik did not know stood over his sheep and punched the knife into its belly again and again until thick ropes of intestines slipped from the corpse. He did not stop until _dai_ Ismail walked up behind him and caught his arm. The expression on his face was of someone awaking from a dream.   Dai Ismail's expression suggested that the novice was in serious trouble.  

Kadar dodged a sheep. "What do we do now?"

Malik shrugged. "Wait." 

It took the novices a while to kill all the sheep. When they were done _dai_ Ismail took the novice who had not stopped stabbing by the scruff of his neck, growled "Wait here," and half-dragged, half-carried the hapless boy away.

The other novices watched nervously.

"I don't understand," Kadar said."Why'd they get us to do that?"

Malik stopped himself a hair's breath away from admitting that neither did he. He shrugged. ""I think they want to see that we can kill," he said.

Somebody snorted behind Malik. Malik turned, and saw Altaïr glaring at him. "They just know you can kill sheep," the other boy said scornfully."What else do you expect from shepherds?"

The insult flew straight over Malik's head. Everyone he knew had been a herder of some sort. A large and healthy flock was a sign of high status. He shrugged. "Shepherds know sheep. Don't you?"

There was a collective intake of breath. One of the other novices snickered. It was Yasu al-Ansari, a tall boy with deep-set eyes and fists the size of melons. "Altaïr here hasn't got a family," he said, stepping back behind Malik as he did so. "Have you, ibn La'Ahad?"

Altaïr scowled.

Malik frowned, trying and failing to make sense of Altaïr's unusual _nasab_. _Ibn La'Ahad_ meant 'son of no-one'. This didn't seem to be such an insult to the Assassins as it would have been amongst the clannish highlanders where Malik had been born, but many things at Masyaf were not the same as home. "No name?" he asked. "How do you know if your tribe are brave or cowards?"

Yasu moved back another step as Altaïr clenched his fists and flew at Malik like a hawk. Caught by surprise, Malik retreated but it was already far too late to defend himself against someone with Altaïr's uncanny speed. Altaïr's right fist caught Malik squarely in his stomach. His left fist caught Malik in the nose as he doubled over.

Yasu moved back another step as Malik collapsed, blood streaming from his nose. As Malik pressed his hands to his face he realised the rules had changed. In the mountains, a fight was preceded by a lot of shouting, and you usually knew who was going to win before you started. Altaïr didn't bother with any of that. He just punched.

"Stop that!"

Altaïr straightened, shaking out his left hand. Malik hoped that Altaïr's hand hurt as much as his face did.

"Get up," snarled _dai_ Ismail. "Novices, return your weapons to the armoury. Altaïr, Malik, come with me."

Altaïr's face was set like stone. "Yes, _dai_."

"Yes, _dai_." Malik got up slowly. He searched the crowd for faces and saw that Rauf had pulled Kadar away. He pressed the sleeve of his robe to his bleeding nose and tipped his head forwards so that the blood dripped onto the fabric rather than down his throat. 

He walked with his head down as _dai_ Ismail led them up the steps towards the keep itself. For a horrible second Malik thought he would march them right up into Al Mualim's study, blood-stained clothes and all, but the _dai_ stopped in the shade of the high walls before they reached the gates.  

"Recite the Creed," he ordered.

You did not have to have been at Masyaf for long to learn the Creed. "Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent. Hide in plain sight. Never compromise the brotherhood."

Dai Ismail glared at them both. "Good," he said in a voice that belied the compliment. "Now tell me where you failed."

Altaïr was the first to speak. "I have not broken the Creed," he protested.

 _Dai_ Ismail cut him off with a shout like a sword-blade. "Silence, Altaïr. Your protests only serve to emphasise your ignorance. Malik?"

Malik wiped his nose. "Stay your blade?" he suggested thickly.

"Wrong!" _Dai_ Ismail shook his head. "You both have much to learn and it is my great regret that I will be the one to teach you. Never compromise the brotherhood! Altaïr, do not bloody the nose of your brother in the Creed. Assassins do not fight each other! We have other enemies, and the sooner you learn that, the better. And Malik, do not hesitate. Nothing is true, and everything is permitted. Do not wait until your opponent has brought the fight to you."

Malik frowned. He had no intention of hesitating should Altaïr strike again, and less of facing him alone when he did. He used the most respectful form of address he knew. "I won't, _sayyid_ , but-"

Dai Ismail cut him off with a glare. "I am _no sayyid_. I am a _dai_ and you will call me such."

"Yes, _dai,_ " said Malik. "But-"

Dai Ismail gestured for him to continue. "It seems we have a philosopher in our midst," he said, and snorted at Malik's confused expression. "Never mind. You may speak."

"If nothing's true and everything is permitted, then why follow the Creed at all?"

Altaïr sniggered.

Dai Ismail took a sharp, happy intake of breath. "A good question," he said. "But if nothing is true and everything is permitted, it is permitted for you to do forty push-ups. Then you shall learn what is true and what is not. You may start now."

Malik dropped to the floor. The _dai_ turned to Altaïr. "As for you, Altaïr, your arrogance serves you poorly. Forty push-ups will not teach you humility, but it may help. You may also start now. When you both have finished, the library floor needs cleaning." One eyelid twitched in a movement that might have been a smile on another man. "That, too, is permitted by the Creed."

Malik's arms felt like frayed rope. He levered himself painfully up and down as Altaïr completed the exercise in half the time without the worry. Altaïr, Malik thought, had probably done many more push-ups in his life than Malik had.

"You will find brooms and buckets in the library." _Dai_ Ismail jerked his head towards the doors as both boys scrambled to their feet. "Change your clothes first. Hurry. Any questions?"

" _Sayy_ -" Malik bit off the word as _dai_ Ismail raised an eyebrow. " _Dai_ -what's a library?"

"If you don't know," _Dai_ Ismail said, "you will find out."

A library, Malik discovered once he had changed, was a large room filled with more books than he had ever seen in his life. Altaïr was already scrubbing the floor with vigour by the time Malik hurried in. Malik knew that he should follow the other novice's example, but instead he just stopped and stared.

They said in the mountains that Al Mualim knew everything. Malik had not understood how a man could know everything before he had seen the Master's library. There were hundreds of books, so many that their very presence scented the air and gave the room an irresistible gravity of its own. Tall shelves divided the room into a maze of learning. They were wider than Malik's outstretched arms and reared as high as horses above his head. All the shelves were full.

A friend of Malik's uncle had owned one book, a copy of the Quran. He'd kept it in a jewelled case and removed it only rarely, and always with reverence. Nobody else Malik had ever known had a whole room just for books. He'd never seen a whole room just for people until he came to Masyaf. He wished Kadar could see the library too.

Altaïr snorted. "Are you going to get to work, or are you just going to stand there?"

Malik would have loved to hunt around in the stacks of shelving, but he knew enough about Altaïr to guess that the other boy would not hesitate to report Malik's disobedience to _dai_ Ismail or anybody else who cared. He tore his gaze from the books, rolled up the sleeves of his clean robe and set to work. For a long time there was no sound in the room except the rasp of bristles on the stone.

"You ask too many questions," Altaïr said after a while.

Malik shrugged; as well as a boy could shrug with a rag in both hands. "My father told us all it was the way to learn."

Altaïr snorted. "Nobody here cares what your father taught you."

Malik was taken aback by the hostility in the other boy's tone."What snake bit _you_ this morning" he asked. "You act like you're better than us all."

"I _am_ better than you all." Altaïr's voice was muffled behind the sound of virtuous scrubbing.

"We're both novices," Malik retorted.

Altaïr turned aside with a look that said Malik wasn't even worth speaking to, but, as Malik suspected, he could not hold his tongue.  "I am not the same as you. I'm an Assassin. I was _born_ an Assassin. You were not. There's a difference." 

"Yes," Malik said. " _You_ can't kill sheep."

Altaïr snarled. Malik thought Altaïr would strike him, despite _dai_ Ismail's punishment, and as the other boy approached he groped behind him for the bucket thinking that he could throw it at Altaïr. His questing hand found a book instead. As Malik pulled it from the shelves Altaïr retreated as if the book was a shield rather than a slim volume. "Don't touch the books," he said. "We're not allowed. They're valuable."

Malik ignored him. He had never touched a book before. H It was lighter than he had expected, and the leather binding was shiny from use. Malik couldn't read the writing inside, but it didn't matter. He discovered that the ink felt smoother than the paper that it covered, and that the rough edges of the cut pages caught on his fingers as he turned the page. The book smelt old and musty, like a dry cave in the mountains. Malik raised it to his nose to sniff the paper, and a voice cut in from behind him.

"What's this, Altaïr?"

The sound startled Malik. The book slid from his fingers. Before the volume had even touched the ground, an arm as brown and as twisted as mountain oak reached past Malik to grasp the cover. Malik looked up, startled. Altaïr scrubbed the floor as if he could erase all evidence of his mistake.

 An old man stood behind them. He wore a black robe with a hood from which a long white beard poured like foam. His skin was as dark and furrowed as any highlander Malik had ever seen. The old man bent down to slot the book back into its proper place and fixed Malik with a glare like the hot rays of the sun.

"You can read?"

Malik shook his head. "Just my name, _sayyid_." He'd learned his letters from pictures in the sand, but little more. The old man frowned and Malik wished that he could have said yes.

"You like books?"

Malik nodded.

"Good. We shall have to see what we can teach you." He watched Malik with calculating eyes, as if measuring his worth against the book Malik had so nearly spoiled.

Malik squirmed. "I'm sorry for dropping your book," he said. "I should be cleaning."

The old man smiled. "I see Altaïr is helping you."

At the mention of his name, Altaïr dropped his brush and bowed so low his belly touched the floor. The old man brushed Altaïr's hair with his hand as another man might have stroked a hound puppy and turned back to Malik. "It is no error to have respect for learning. There is more knowledge in this single room than a hundred men could learn in a lifetime of study." He smiled again, benevolently. "Yet that does not stop me from trying. We may yet find a use for you, little scholar." He looked down at Altaïr."Altaïr, you would do well to follow this novice's example." He jerked his chin, beard swaying, just once. It was a tiny movement, but Altaïr rose immediately to his knees and began scrubbing. "Now get back to work."

Bemused, Malik dropped to the ground and began to clean. He did not dare to glance at the old man or Altaïr, but he heard footsteps retreating back to the upper floors of the hall after a few moments. It was strange, he thought, that such an old man could move so quietly when he chose. He had not heard any sound until the old man had reached to save the book.

 They cleaned in silence until Malik's knuckles ached and his palms were raw from contact with the stone. The floor was very nearly spotless when Altaïr said "Do you know who that was?" When Malik didn't answer straight away he snorted, his voice vibrating with bitterness. "You don't know anything."

Malik had already worked it out for himself. "It was Al Mualim," he said. "Wasn't it?"

Altaïr's silence was answer enough.

At that moment, Malik would have done anything for Al Mualim. He understood why those Assassins who did not kill their foes chose to die in the attempt.

And that, as with so many things in life, was a double edged sword.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch3  
> Nasab: Arab patronymic, indicating heritage by the word 'ibn' or 'son'. Ibn La'Ahad –lit. 'son of no-one'


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik prepares for his initiation

After This Age

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

Chapter Four,

_Masyaf, 1183._

Ten years later...

 

"How many do you see?" Rauf asked.

Malik leaned out from the great dome of hammered bronze that topped the keep of Masyaf. "Nineteen-no, twenty. Twenty-one....twenty-two......twenty-three. That's all. Three missing."

They studied the small line of white-robed Assassins and Assassin novices that wound through the pass towards Masyaf. Malik shaded his eyes against the sun, but he was unable to tell one man from another. He certainly couldn't distinguish Kadar amongst the crowd.

"Kadar is bound to have survived," Rauf said with a confidence that Malik certainly did not feel. "Who was his partner, anyway?"

"Altaïr," said Malik glumly.

Rauf hesitated. "He'll _probably_ have survived."

Malik adjusted his position on the dome's warm bronze skin. "Altaïr is a jackal and the son of a jackal," he snapped, "and if my brother is not well when next I see him I shall make that yellow-eyed sister-fucker wish he'd never been born."

"You've said that before," said Rauf, "and I've heard better insults. Besides, Altaïr would win. You're not a _bad_ Assassin, Malik, but you're no match for Altaïr in a fight." He smirked. "If you studied less maybe you'd beat him."

"If you talked less, maybe _you_ would." Malik retorted. He watched the thin white line creep closer to the gates of Masyaf village. The great flag of Masyaf flapped above his head with a sound like a thousand drying blankets. "I don't care. I'd ask Al Mualim for Altaïr's head if he ever harmed my brother." 

Rauf snorted. "You think the old man would give up his favourite for _that_? You're taking this far too seriously, Malik. Putting novices in danger isn't a sin. That's what novices are _for_."

"It is if the novice is my brother."

Rauf shook his head. "Don't let _dai_ Ali or _dai_ Ismail hear you speak that way. They'll just give you some menial task to teach you not to cling to family ties."

Malik snorted. "We spend our every waking moment training as it is. I am not foolish, Rauf. Why do you think I speak of such things up here?"

 "You can't protect Kadar forever."

"I can try." Malik said firmly.

Rauf adjusted his grip upon the dome's spire. "True. You can try. But Kadar will live and die by his own skill, Malik. Not yours. Besides, there are other things to think about. I can see Al Mualim's gardens from here. Want to take a look?"

Malik shook his head. "Let's go down."

"We should have been down at midday. A bit longer won't make much difference."

" _Dai_ Ismail will be looking for us."

"No, he won't."

"Trust me, he will. He's always looking."

Rauf shrugged. "Maybe you're right," he said. "We've got to look our best for the ceremony. That'll take time." He raised an eyebrow at Malik. "More time for some than others."

Malik smacked Rauf on the shoulder. He would have put more force into the blow if they hadn't both been crouched on the dome's sloping surface. The ground was a very long way down. "Then _you_ should have started at dawn. We best hurry. I'll race you down."

"I-"

Malik let go of the spire. He slid on his heels down the dome and caught the very rim with his hands before dropping onto the sloping tiled roof below. Stone-dust and pigeon feathers rose in a cloud as Rauf followed. Malik raced past the pair of stone eagles that kept unceasing watch over the passes. He heard Rauf close behind him and allowed himself a hair's breadth more speed as he jumped from the roof to a buttress and from the buttress to a stretch of crumbling wall that seemed too perfect to be anything but artifice. From the sound of it, Rauf had chosen a slower but less technically difficult route over the south face of the building. Malik wondered how he thought he'd win that way.

He concentrated on navigating the steep course of arrow-slits and stones. A low balcony ringed the tower's top story. It gave Malik a moment's respite before he gathered himself and dropped onto the first of a row of empty flagpoles that ran perfectly just above the great rose window above Al Mualim's study. The heat intensified as he descended. Malik rolled his palms in grit to stop his hands from sliding and went down.

"You'll never make it that way!" Rauf called from the other side of the tower. From the sound of it, he was slightly out of breath.

"Watch me." Malik completed the course of flagpoles and leapt from the last one onto the first of a series of smaller domes that flanked the main arcade. He clambered down the steep wall beneath and came to a halt hanging by his fingernails above a very long drop. A sheer wall stretched to his right. It was punctuated by a single, solitary flagpole.

There was no time to waste. Malik whispered a curse and let go of the ledge while he still had enough momentum. He ran with short, quick steps in an arc to the empty flagpole and tried not to think about the void below him as his feet began to slip. He'd intended to perch like a pigeon on the flagpole, but instead one of his boots skidded and he caught the flagpole with both hands and enough force to nearly dislocate his arms from their sockets.  A nearby flock of pigeons took off in a clatter of wings.

The rest of the climb was easy in comparison. Malik could have done it in his sleep. His aching shoulders only slowed him slightly, and the tower's arched windows provided a good handhold. He clambered hand over hand down the sheer wall of stone to the battlements, where he ducked beneath the parapet to avoid the guards. Once they had passed Malik ran in a crouch beneath faded banners of red silk to the end of the battlements and climbed down the north tower into the courtyard. The flagstones were so hot he half expected his boots to smoke.

There was no sign of Rauf.

Malik stood casually next to the main gate and watched the novices sparring in the fighting ring until his friend arrived. Nobody took any notice.  The novices in his own group were all preparing for their own initiation, and the teachers were, by and large, too busy with younger trainees to pay Malik any mind.  Rauf skidded around the corner just as Malik wiped the last of the grit from his hands.

"You started later."

"You should have taken the same route. Maybe then we'd have had a proper race."

"Nonsense. I didn't see room for two on that wall. We'd both have ended up in a heap."

Malik shrugged. "You always did lose poorly."

Rauf swiped at him as they both set off across the courtyard to the dormitory and Malik ducked, laughing. They were still faking punches at each other as they reached the archway of the dormitory, though they both had the sense to quieten down as they entered. Those novices that passed their initiation would be given their own rooms as _fidai'in_ after the ceremony, and the dormitory had to be spotless for the new crop of recruits.

"Where have you been?" Yasu snapped. His hands balled into fists around the handle of a wooden bucket. A few more novices looked up from their cleaning."We're almost finished."

"That," Rauf drawled, "was the idea."

Malik elbowed him. No. It wasn't." He caught Yasu's furious eyes and submitted to temptation. "It was just a pleasant side effect."

Yasu growled. "Ali will take it out on both of you. What were you doing?"

"Does it matter?" countered Malik.

Yasu watched him with a sour expression."You were watching for your brother, weren't you?" he said. "We're all your brothers. You're supposed to be helping _us_."

Malik shrugged. "It's none of your business _what_ we were doing, Yasu. We're not novices any more-at least we won't be, after the initiation."

"You won't be Assassins if you fail." Yasu snarled. "

 It was not the first time that Yasu had preached the Creed at Malik. The reproach stung, but Malik had learned that Yasu would see any retort as more proof of Malik's guilt. "We'll pass," he said.

"And if we don't, then we'll have bigger problems," agreed Rauf. "Come on, Yasu. We'll help you finish off."

Yasu glared at him. "Stop working," he said to the other novices. "We've completed _our_ task. _You_ can do what's left." 

The other novices set aside their work with varying degrees of hesitation and filed out, leaving their buckets, brooms and brushes where they were. Yasu turned on his heel and kicked his bucket over behind him as he left.

Rauf sniffed. "Surely that's against the Creed? It seems everything else is."

Malik shrugged. "A skilled Assassin maintains control of his environment," he said, half-seriously.

"Control-" Rauf broke off. "Malik? What's that?"

Malik followed Rauf's gaze over to his pallet, where several pages of the latest manuscript he had been assigned to copy lay sodden on the floor. Ink leaked from the ruined parchment and stained Malik's mattress. Malik automatically checked that the manuscript itself was safe within his weapons chest. It was; which meant Yasu had only ruined several weeks of work rather than an irreplaceable work of art.  " _La'anatullah._ At least the book itself is safe."

"And you'll soon be assigned a more exciting mission," Rauf said.

Malik scowled as he lifted Al Mualim's copy of the _Nuzhat al-mushtaq fi'khtiraq al-afaq_  carefully from the chest and tucked it beneath his arm. "Maybe. I need to return this." He glanced into Rauf's bucket. The water was the colour of weak tea. "And we need more water. I'm going to the well."

Rauf picked up a rag. "Don't take too long."

Malik took the manuscript back to Al Mualim's library. Once the book had been safely replaced upon the dusty shelves he went to the well in the courtyard to refill the bucket. There was nobody else at the well, so Malik lingered a moment to study his reflection in the water as it settled. It was not a view he considered particularly impressive. Rauf had a beard you could lose your sheep in, but so far Malik hadn't been able to grow more than a small tuft on his chin. He looked more like a ruffled crow than a hawk.

Malik shrugged. If there were more important things in life than Kadar, then there were more important things than beards.

He was half way to the dormitory when somebody called his name. Malik turned, and grinned when he saw who it was. "Kadar! You've returned."

His brother smiled. "Did you expect otherwise?"

"Not so soon," said Malik, as they clasped arms in a gesture that a year ago would have been an embrace. _And maybe not in one piece._

"Are you well, brother?"  

Malik nodded. "Well enough," he said briefly. "I have only a minute. The initiation is this afternoon."

Kadar sighed. "Good," he said. "I thought that we had missed it. The road was washed away. And then a horse was sick, and Ismail failed at his assassination. Three men were killed, and Yusef lost a hand."

Malik stepped back to get a good look at his brother. "Did you have much trouble?" he asked, pleased to see that all Kadar's limbs appeared intact-not always the case when a novice was partnered with Altaïr-and less pleased to see that the difference in height between himself and his brother was narrowing with every season.  

Kadar grinned. "My mission was only a courier assignment. But I found some excitement all the same. Word got out, and I must have been chased by twenty Templars. They caused me no end of trouble." He frowned."I lost them in the alleys, but I wish that I'd have stayed to fight."

"Then you'd have been stupid." Malik told him. "Nobody fights twenty men and lives to tell the tale."

"Altaïr does!" Kadar protested.

Malik shook his head. "I don't know how Altaïr does the things he does, but I know for certain most of us shouldn't even try it. Nobody who's sane battles twenty men, because nobody who's sane can walk away from a fight like that. Trust me."

"I can." Kadar protested. He took a step away from Malik and plucked his dagger from his belt, flipping it from hand to hand in a complicated figure of eight pattern. It was the sort of flashy trick no Assassin was meant to practice but every novice did. "I'm better."

Malik caught the knife by the hilt and handed it back to his brother. "No. You can't, and you're not. The only thing you'll hurt with that is yourself."

"I can look after myself. I'm an Assassin! You don't have to watch over me!"

"No," Malik said."I don't. But I'm your brother, and I'm going to anyway."

"But Al Mualim says-"

"Al Mualim is wrong," said Malik, without thinking.

His words hung in the still air of the courtyard far longer than they should have done. It was never wise to question Al Mualim's teachings. The Old Man taught peace, in all things, and he was never wrong. The Assassins did not question. They simply obeyed.

He looked around in case anybody else had heard his hasty words, but nobody was watching save Kadar. Kadar looked at Malik as if his brother had suggested that he walk on the ceiling.

Malik sighed. "Forget what I said. I must go. Safety and peace, brother."

Kadar clasped his forearm. "On you as well. You will pass, Malik."

Malik turned away as Kadar hurried from the courtyard, his thoughts in turmoil.

 _I have never been able to hold my tongue_ , he thought. _I do not truly doubt Al Mualim, but I will not abandon Kadar._

An Assassin's loyalty was to the Creed. He had no family but his brothers in the Creed. Like so much of the Creed, the tenet was easy to repeat, but hard to practice. And the teaching ran counter to everything Malik had been told as a child amongst the tribes, where family was paramount and the honour of the clan a killing matter. It was the one part of Al Mualim's teachings that Malik had always ignored. He had been cautioned many times not to show too much favour to Kadar.

He was deep in thought by the time he arrived back at the dormitory. Rauf looked up as Malik arrived, but he had to cough twice before Malik even noticed that he was there. "Where have you been? I've finished."

Malik smirked. "That was the idea," he said, ducking as Rauf got to his feet and threw a punch at him. "Kadar is back. I've seen him."

Rauf looked mollified. "Oh? Well, that _is_ good news."

"Mm. Although he now considers odds of twenty to one a good idea."

"That's not good news. But it's a phase. He'll grow out of it."

"If he survives," Malik said glumly.

"If _we_ survive. Let's get these things packed away. We're going to be late."

"Are you ready?"

"I've been ready for years," said Rauf, not entirely convincingly.

"Liar," said Malik, who had heard it all before.

He was still thinking of the conversation later that day, when they cut off his finger and Malik discovered that _he_ wasn't ready at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch4  
> Malik's descent from the dome mirrors Ezio Auditore's climb to the top in AC: Revelations. The 'stone eagles that watch the passes' are the ones Ezio that leaps from.  
> La'anatullah: may he be deprived of God's blessings: Arabic curse.  
> Nuzhat al-mushtaq fi'khtiraq al-afaq : lit: The Book of Pleasant Journeys Into Faraway Lands, otherwise known as the Tabula Rogeriana; a description of the world and world map written in the 12th century for King Roger of Sicily, hence the name.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik passes his initiation and accepts his first mission

After This Age

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

Chapter Five

_Masyaf, 1183._

 

The tower room was round; with one side open to the sun. A few hooded Assassins leaned against the walls with their arms folded. Malik stood uneasily in the centre of the room while Al Mualim paced around him. The old man moved as silently as the shadow of a hawk. His long beard and black robe trailed like banners in the wind.

"We have been training you for years," Al Mualim said. "We've taught you the skills to join our ranks." He caught Malik's eyes with a gaze sharp as a blade. "You are ready. But there is always a choice. Lay down your knife and you may leave."

Malik shook his head.  He looked at the butcher's block beside Al Mualim and the narrow plank behind him and thought _my entire life has been a straight path leading to this point_. "I'm not going to leave."

Al Mualim smiled. "Nothing is true," he said, "everything is permitted. These are the words that lie at the heart of our Creed. When other men blindly follow the truth, remember-"

The cowled Assassins chorused "Nothing is true."

"Where other men are limited, by morality or law, remember-"

"Everything is permitted."

Al Mualim reached the wall and turned. His shadow turned with him; sharp-edged against the stone. "We work in the dark, to serve the light. We are Assassins. Nothing is true, and everything is permitted."

"Nothing is true, and everything is permitted," repeated Malik. He had never felt that he truly understood the central tenet, yet the power of Al Mualim's voice enabled him to repeat the sentence without hesitation.

Al Mualim spread his ragged sleeves. "It is time, Malik." he said. "Do not fear. Are you ready to join us?

Malik nodded. "I am," he said, struggling to keep his voice level.

Al Mualim lifted a heavy, single –edged knife. "Place your left hand on the block."

Malik did so. He wrapped the fingers of his right hand around his left wrist, trusting to pride to keep him silent. He held his hand motionless as Al Mualim stepped forwards and placed the edge of the knife the first knuckle of his finger, feeling for the joint like Malik's mother slicing up a lamb. Then he slammed his hand down on the flat back of the blade.

A vivid flash of pain coursed up Malik's left arm. It took all his strength to hold his left hand still while Al Mualim did the fine work; trimming back the bone and muscle of the stump and stitching the skin together with thread that felt rough enough to fasten sacks.

The blade was slick with blood by the time Al Mualim stepped back. One of the Assassins handed him a clean cloth. The Old Man wiped the blade on the cloth and handed both items back to the Assassin before he held out his arms to Malik and gestured him towards the open side of the tower room.

"Congratulations," he said. "You have passed the first part of the test. Now answer this. Do you trust me?"

Malik nodded. The stump of his missing finger pulsed with every rapid beat of his heart. He took a deep breath and willed himself to calm. "I do."

Al Mualim nodded. "Words are not enough." He pointed to the open wall. Three small and narrow platforms made from wooden planks jutted out into the air. "You must prove your loyalty without hesitation. Remember, nothing is true, and everything is permitted. You will now learn the truth in those words. Go to those planks and jump."

Malik chose the left-hand platform. It was hardly wider than a man, and gave slightly as he stepped out onto it. He checked the fit of his own knife within its sheath and took another step towards the horizon. Snow-capped mountains in from of him gave the sky its familiar jagged edge. He was higher than the tallest of Masyaf's watchtowers. There was a small scrap of grass below him on a narrow ledge, startlingly green, like a scrap of emerald cloth against the stone.

Malik took a deep breath of clear, cold air, and jumped.

There was a moment of wonderful, terrifying weightlessness. Wind tugged at his clothes. And then all his breath left him in a gasp as he hit the ground far below.

To his relief, he was still alive.

Malik lay on his back in a pile of what felt like hay, and laughed as his senses returned to him in a dizzying rush.  Somebody reached out a hand and he took it, remembering the pain in his finger too late to draw back. Somebody else clapped him on the shoulder.

"You have proven yourself worthy, Malik al-Sayf. Today you commit to uphold the pillars of our Creed. We are Assassins. Safety and peace."

Malik shook straw from his hair. "Safety and peace," he said, as one of the Assassins buckled a gauntlet around his left wrist. Malik flexed his hand, feeling the unaccustomed weight. Leather creaked. He made a fist and the hidden blade shot out, fitting neatly into the space left by his missing finger.

 _It was worth the trade,_ he thought.

"Welcome," _dai_ Ismail said, and bowed with his clenched fist held to his heart. "You are one of us. We are Assassins. "

Malik liked the sound of that. "What do I do now?"

Dai Ismail's smile was "Your training has only just begun. For now, you wait. Change your clothes and collect your new weapons. You'll receive your orders later, as will your fellow _fidai'in_. Those that survived. "

"But-"

"Enough questions. Now, move out of the way!"

Malik moved. He had hoped to see Rauf, but the next novice that landed –unmoving-in the pile of straw was not his friend. Malik thought it was Yasu, but he couldn't tell for certain. The novice's face was half-covered by his hood; his neck was bent at an odd angle.

"I said move!" barked _dai_ Ismail as the Assassins pulled the body to the side. It left a smear of blood against the straw.

Malik turned away. He did not think the body belonged to Rauf, and if it was then there was very little Malik could have done about it. He walked to the edge of the tiny patch of grass and began the long climb back towards Masyaf. A _fidai'in's_ life had always been a dangerous one, and a swift fall from a rooftop was not the worse end a man could find.

 _We walk in the dark_ , he thought, _to serve the light. We are Assassins_.

_I am an Assassin._

His hands and feet moved without conscious thought, adjusting instinctively for the weight of his new gauntlet. He had climbed this route many times before. The surroundings were familiar. It was Malik that felt different. He'd been chosen by Al Mualim. He really belonged. 

He wondered how many novices had failed the test. It was true that his class was much smaller than it had been ten years ago. The _fidai'in_ were the elite. Not all had died. Some had injured themselves in training, others had shamed themselves; more had simply left. The Assassins made few mistakes. Most of those prepared for the initiation passed the test.

Some didn't.

The gates were virtually deserted, which meant there were no more than five or six Assassins in various stages of near-invisibility on and around it.  The man stationed at the gate nodded to Malik as he walked past. "You've passed?"

Malik nodded.

Assassins did not often smile, but the guard's dark beard split in a wide grin. "Safety and peace, brother. You've earned the right to carry a blade. Go to the armoury. Ali will sort you out."

Malik thanked him and left. He paused at the door of the armoury, remembering the day so long ago when he had collected his first knife. Novices were not allowed to carry any weapon other than a small blade with one side sharpened; the sort any man might use to cut his meat. They returned all other weapons to the armoury after practice. Assassins were allowed their hidden blades, a short sword and a long sword as well as a belt of throwing knives and a red sash a full finger's width wider than the one that novices wore. Malik had learned to use them all, but he had never before had weapons that were his.

He collected his new weapons from Ali. When he ducked back under the lintel arms piled high with steel, he walked straight into Kadar. It took all his training not to drop his new sword on the ground.

Kadar seemed unconcerned by his imminent impalement. "Did you pass?" he asked eagerly.

Malik wondered if his brother had been waiting just for him. "Of course."

Kadar stared at Malik's left hand. "Does it hurt? Did you do well?"

Malik shrugged. It did, but he wasn't about to admit that to Kadar. "I earned my hidden blade," he said, and flicked the knife from its scabbard in the gauntlet.

"Can I try it?" his brother asked him eagerly.

"Don't you have some task or other?"

Kadar shook his head. "We've finished for the day. I don't have anything better to do. Do you?"

Malik shook his head. He drew Kadar to the side of the courtyard, where a water-trough was in the shadow of Masyaf's high walls. "Come here. Out of the way." He sat down and unfastened his new gauntlet with his right hand. The leather was stiff, and it took all his concentration to undo the buckles. He wondered where he could find some oil to soften the gauntlet.

Kadar settled himself on the rim of the trough next to Malik and rolled up his left sleeve for Malik to fit the hidden blade. The gauntlet sat more loosely on his arm than Malik's. Kadar flexed his fingers and tried a few practice blows. "It feels loose."

Malik folded his arms. "Then you better practice climbing more. You can always tighten the straps." He shook his head as Kadar tried another lunge. "Not like that-you don't want to cut your finger off before it's time. Take care."

Kadar ran his right hand over the curved Assassin emblem embossed into the leather and held his hand out to Malik. " _Dai_ Ismail and _dai_ Ali always talk about stealth. Don't people notice that you're wearing the gauntlets?"

"They don't see us at all." Malik unbuckled the straps and drew the gauntlet from Kadar's hand. "Until it's far too late."

Kadar grinned. Both brothers looked up as a shadow fell over them. For a second Malik feared that Yasu had returned to remind them both of the folly of putting family before the brotherhood, but instead it was Rauf.

"Rauf!" Malik recalled he was an Assassin just in time to rein in some of his enthusiasm. "It's good to see you-and in one piece, too."

Rauf held up his left hand to display his missing finger. "More or less. You too, friend."

"You passed?" Kadar asked eagerly.

Rauf held up his gauntlet. "I did. It was touch and go for a moment there-I thought I'd scream as the Old Man sliced my finger, but I did it-and survived." He touched the long sword belted at his hip and held up his left hand to display the leather gauntlet. "We're Assassins, now. Your brother and I, we'll make a great team."

 "Speak for yourself," Malik grinned. His smile quickly faded as he realized that nobody else had passed the gate.  "The novice who jumped after me was stone dead when they pulled him from the hay. Who else survived?"

Rauf shrugged. "From our class? I'm not sure. Abbas leapt before me. I saw him land. He survived. And Altaïr's already an initiate. That leaves a fair few to be accounted for. Do you know who you saw?"

Malik shook his head. "I'm not certain. He fell in such a way that his hood concealed his face. But I think it was Yasu."

Rauf shrugged. "It could have been worse."

Malik looked up in surprise. Rauf was usually a compassionate soul. "That's heartless."

"It could have been me." Rauf said. "But joking apart, if it was Yasu, then it's a pity."

"I never doubted you would both survive," Kadar said to Malik.

Rauf laughed. "That's more than I did."

They all paused as a novice a few years younger than Kadar ran into the bright circle of the courtyard. The novice looked around for a moment before he spied them by the fountain and ran over. He paused a moment, hands on his knees, to catch his breath before he spoke. 

"I bring a message from Al Mualim. Which one of you is Malik?"

"I'm Malik." Malik said.

"You're summoned to the Master's study. He wants to see you now."

Malik was already on his feet. He checked the fit of his gauntlet and buckled his new long-sword over the red sash at his waist.  He slung the belt of throwing knives over his shoulder and sheathed the short sword on his right hip to balance out the longer blade. "How do I look?"

Rauf grinned. "You'll do. I wonder what the Old Man wants with you?"

"So do I," Malik nodded to Kadar and clasped Rauf's arm, right hand to left. "I'll let you know."

He left his friend behind and followed the novice through the dusty corridors of Al Mualim's library. The novice led him up the grand central staircase to the old man's desk. Rays of light pierced the stained glass window behind the desk and captured dust motes in a lazy, eternal spiral of red, orange and lapis lazuli. The sound of pigeon wings from behind the glass clattered like Malik's heartbeat. He bowed his head and waited. At last Al Mualim looked up.

"Ah," he said in a voice as sharp as steel. "Malik."

Malik bowed. "Master."

Al Mualim beckoned. Malik could not help but search for blood upon the Old Man's sleeves. The fabric that flapped around his skinny aging hands was unstained as far as he could tell.  

"Come forwards. I have some news for you."

Malik's heart clenched. He imagined a thousand things; that Al Mualim disapproved of his discussions with Kadar, that he'd failed his initiation. "Master, I-"

"Silence," Al Mualim held up his hand. "I do not ask this of you lightly. You have passed your test and I find that I have need of you sooner than I had thought. I must have a _fidai'i_ who knows enough scripture to pass as a student. You have always been a good student, and now you are a skilled Assassin."

Malik bowed. "I am your man."

"You shall travel to Damascus. There is a man there named Abu Firas, a scholar. He preaches against our cause. You shall approach him as a student, keen and quick to learn.  You shall listen to his teachings, and then you shall convince him of the error of his ways." He paused.

"Should I kill him, Master?"

The old man shook his head. "No. You may kill him only if he does not obey. A good Assassin must learn when to stay his blade. One man who can choose the right time to strike is worth more than a hundred times a hundred thousand fighters. Do you understand?"

"I know the Creed," said Malik. "Whatever you wish."

Al Mualim's eyes narrowed, creasing his lined face into a hundred wrinkles. "Remind me how we hunt our prey."

"An Assassin may eavesdrop, he may steal; he may use violence to intimidate," recited Malik.

Al Mualim nodded. "Well done. Will you do this?"

"If this is your wish."

"It is."

"Then I will go." Malik said. He got up, moving carefully to avoid tangling his new sword in his robe. He did his best to hide his disappointment. Like all new initiates, he had hoped that his first mission would be a grand assassination.

"Begin by visiting the Bureau in Damascus. The _rafiq_ there will brief you more fully on your mission and assist you in any way he can. He'll tell you when to strike. Take a horse from our stables. One of our men will meet you outside the city gates."

Malik nodded. "Thank you for your help, Master."

"Safety and peace," mumbled Al Mualim, his attention already on the papers laid on his desk.

Malik bowed again and took his leave. He walked down the wide staircase and headed directly for the stables, but caught a novice's sleeve before he was more than halfway there. "Will you take a message for me, brother?"

The novice looked startled for a second, then nodded. "What message?"

"Speak to Rauf, and to Kadar. Tell them I've left Masyaf on Al Mualim's orders. Tell them I'll return soon."

"What way do you travel?"

Malik grinned. "West," he said, "And south. I travel to Damascus." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch5.  
> The Assassins are also there to kill recruits who don't pass the test. If Malik does know this, he's pretending that he doesn't.
> 
> The scene where Malik shows Kadar his new gauntlet was directly inspired by doubleleaf's picture 'Admiration'


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik's first mission.

After This Age

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

Chapter Six

_Damascus, 1183._

 

"A man will come out of the east!" cried Abu Firas as he stalked the room. The scholar's face was purple with passion. His boots struck stone with cold force and sent dust flying into the faces of those students who had been stupid enough to sit in the front row. "He will preach in the name of the family of Muhammad, though he is the furthest of all men from them.  He will hoist his banners, flags which begin with victory and end with unbelief."

Malik, who had prudently placed himself at the back of the crowded hall, studied Abu Firas with interest. He had wondered several times whether the scholar would be so considerate as to die from a seizure and save Malik the trouble of a threat, but Abu Firas, in this as in so many things, showed no thought for other men.

Abu Firas rolled his eyes towards the heavens. "This teacher will be followed by the discards of the Arabs, the lowest of the _mawali_." He leant forwards and shook his finger at the crowd. A drop of spittle flew from his mouth."They are slaves and runaways, outcasts who have no religion. They clothe themselves in white, and most of them are mutilated."

Malik resisted the temptation to roll his eyes.

 _It is not a mutilation_ , he thought. _It is a mark of honour_.

He shifted on the mat and pretended to take notes with the stylus in his right hand, keeping the fingers of his left hand curled into his palm to hide his missing finger. He was not much concerned. The other students came to the _madrasa_ to hear Abu Firas teach. Malik learned about the man himself. He had found that Abu Firas had written over a hundred books, some contradicting themselves. He had an immoderate temper, and he never noticed anything that did not admire him or else owe him good coin.

"I name them Assassins," continued Abu Firas. "They are cursed, because they kill the innocent for a price and care nothing for either life or salvation. Like the devil, they transfigure themselves into angels of light by imitating the customs of many people." He took a deep breath and his face paled from indigo to scarlet. "Thus, hidden in sheep's clothing, they suffer death as soon as they are recognised."

 _Which is why_ , Malik thought, we _do not reveal ourselves until the last moment._

He had to admit that Abu Firas's last moment had taken much longer to come than he had expected. Most men would have written Al Mualim's warning in Abu Firas' blood by now.

Malik was not most men. He rolled his stylus between his fingers and tried his best to ignore Abu Firas's ranting.

"They call him Al Mualim," raged the scholar. "He is their teacher, and upon his command all the men of the mountain come out or go in. They are believers of the words of their elder, questioning nothing. And everyone fears them, because they even kill kings."

Malik's stylus snapped in his hand. _Not only_ _kings,_ he thought.

He tucked the broken stylus into his sleeve and fought the urge to stand up and walk out, or better yet, stand up and slash Abu Firas' throat from one ear to another.

 _I should be charitable,_ he thought. _He does not only hate Assassins, but also heretics, atheists, Jews, Christians, fire-worshippers, women, boy-lovers, children who speak during prayers and people who short-change him at the market._

  _I'm getting tired of him. I'm getting tired of_ this _._

Malik had been in Damascus for a month without receiving his signal to strike. It had been the longest month that he had ever known. Sometimes he thought that Al Mualim had forgotten about him; sometimes he thought it was a test of his initiative. More often he considered his test a trial of patience.

 _A good Assassin must learn when to stay his blade. One man who can choose the right time to strike is worth more than a hundred times a hundred thousand fighters_.

Al Mualim's speech had seemed profound in the peace of his study, but the words rang hollow in the halls of Abu Firas's _madrasa_. If nothing else, Malik was beginning to understand why some Muslims hated the Assassins. How could they fail to, when men like Abu Firas spread poison like a scorpion into their minds?

Sometimes Malik wondered whether that was the real reason why he had been sent to Damascus. Perhaps Al Mualim meant him to understand why some Muslims so hated the Assassins.

He was still considering the question when Abu Firas dismissed the class. The best thing that could be said for the scholar's lectures were that they were short-lived, if frequent. No man could sustain that much venom for so long.

Malik excused himself and went up to his room. It was customary that students of a particular master stayed in or near his halls, and Malik had been given a small cell on the _madrasa_ 's upper floor. It was just large enough for a bedroll and an oil lamp, and it had a wide window with a view of the central courtyard. Malik was grateful for the privacy. It would not have been impossible to conceal his training and his weapons from men housed in the same dormitory, but it would have been considerably more difficult.

He closed the room of his door, crossed to the window in a few steps and stood with his elbows on the sill looking out. 

The square outside should have been quiet at this hour. It was not. Malik could still hear the murmur of voices as boys recited Qur'anic verses to their teachers in the square, but the students had been pushed aside by workmen replacing the courtyard's packed-earth floor with glazed _zellj_ tiles of blue and white. Soon the floor of the _madrasa_ itself would be repaired, and Abu Firas's students would sit on tiles rather than dusty stone. It was clear that the scholar was in favour.

Twice Malik had gone to the Damascus bureau to query his mission. He had received the same command to wait each time, and he was too proud to ask again. So he waited, impatient as a hooded hawk, listening to the heretical teachings of Abu Firas and watching as the scholar gained respect throughout Damascus. Late at night, when he would not be missed or noticed, he would take to the rooftops and run across the city under the cover of darkness.

Malik turned from the window in disgust and reached down beneath his bedroll for the handle of his knife. The blade was pared thin from sharpening and had been whetted more often in the last month than it had been since its forging, but Malik had nothing else to do apart from read the writings of Abu Firas. He would have sooner used the knife to cut his own throat. 

Malik's fingers touched a smooth tube instead of the leather scabbard that he had been expecting, so he knelt on the floor and rolled up his pallet. His knife was there, and a purse of coins, and a ruffled brown eagle feather.

The feather was the answer to all of Malik's questions. He picked it up and ran the pinions through his fingers. The brown feather signalled intimidation rather than a certain kill, but it was better than nothing. Malik could imagine exactly what Abu Firas's flesh would feel like beneath his fists. He rose from the pallet, smiling, and paused with one hand on the door.

 _A good Assassin must learn to stay his blade_ , Al Mualim had said.

Malik shook his head in disgust.

Every fragment of pride he possessed screamed at him to act; and act now. The scholar had provoked him beyond all reasonable restraint. But it was late, and Abu Firas would already have closeted himself with his companions. There would be witnesses. To strike now, he knew, would be unwise.

He turned from the door with a snarl of frustration, sat down upon his bedroll and tried to think, muttering the words of the Creed beneath his breath like a mantra. The hammering from the courtyard drowned out the boys' chanting. Malik closed the shutters and tried to concentrate.

_Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent_

That did not help him. Abu Firas was not an innocent man.

_Hide in plain sight. Let the people mask you so you become one with the crowd._

The second tenet was more helpful. Malik would confront Abu Firas in the guise of an ordinary scholar. He had spent a month studying the man and he knew where and when to strike. Abu Firas seldom left the _madrasa_. He was surrounded by students and admirers for much of the day, but he took breakfast alone and he walked from his own room to his study every morning without companions. 

_Never compromise the Brotherhood._

The third tenet urged caution. If he failed, he would dishonour himself. He would dishonour the Assassins, and, by extension Al Mualim.

He told himself that one more night of waiting would make no difference. Then he reached for his knife and slid the whetstone from its place within the dagger's sheath. The _asr_ prayer drowned out the sound of the workmen in the courtyard outside as he spat upon the stone and began to draw the knife across its surface.

The _asr_ prayer gave way to the evening _maghrib_ prayer, and then the _isha'_ night time prayer, and then the _fakhr_ prayer at dawn.

It was the longest night of Malik's life.

 After the last echoes of the dawn prayer had died away he took his wax tablet and his blade and walked down to the courtyard as if he meant to study. The workmen had not yet arrived and the courtyard was very quiet. Half the floor was covered with a grid of interlocking ceramic tiles. The tiles were the same colour as the morning sky.  

Malik skirted the half-finished floor and made his way along the covered corridor to Abu Firas' apartments. He lingered there a moment before the carved door opened and Abu Firas stepped out. The scholar closed the door behind him and headed along the arcade towards Malik, wiping crumbs from his chin as he walked.

Malik intercepted Abu Firas before the scholar reached the end of the corridor. "I have a question about scripture," he said.

"And I have no time," Abu Firas replied..

"You have time for this," Malik snapped.

Abu Firas frowned. "Speak, then," he said.

Malik pounced. He leapt forwards and grabbed the scholar by the embroidered collar of his robe, twisting the fabric just tightly enough that Abu Firas could not speak but loosely enough that he could breathe with difficulty. The hidden blade sprang from Malik's left gauntlet. He jammed his knuckle up under the scholar's jaw, letting the barest inch of the metal emerge to prick Abu Firas's throat.

"I have a message from Al Mualim," he said, reflecting as he did so upon the value of revenge served very cold.

Abu Firas gurgled something unintelligible. Malik tightened his grip.

"This is a warning," he snapped. "One which will not be repeated. You are to cease preaching against the Assassins immediately. You know nothing, and your words do more damage than you know. This Al Mualim will not tolerate."

The scholar mumbled something that might have been ' _why_?' but could have been ' _wait_!' His face was scarlet with shock. Malik loosened his hold a little.

"You curse the Assassins in every sermon and expect us to do _nothing_? I have listening to you for months without anyone suspecting me -and the more I have heard the less I like. Other _fidai'in_ can follow in my footsteps."

"What do you want?" the scholar hissed. His eyes flicked to the end of the corridor in search of help. The passageway was empty. Sunlight glittered from the newly tiled floor. "I warn you, I'll be a martyr if you kill me."

"I'm not going to kill you," Malik said. He belied his words with a quick twist of his left wrist. Blood ran in a thin trickle down the scholar's flabby throat.

Abu Firas frowned. "Then-"

Malik released his collar and sank his fist into the other man's soft belly. It was like punching a straw doll. Abu Firas reeled back, gasping, and Malik gripped him by the throat and pushed him back against the wall.

Abu Firas groaned. Malik hit him again, more gently. He had not realised how easy violence could be against untrained men.

The scholar slumped back. "I'll give you anything," he said.

"You will." Malik agreed. He twisted his left wrist, just a little, and the tip of his blade pierced skin. Blood ran in a thin trickle down the scholar's flabby throat.

"How?" The scholar's eyes darted back to the end of the corridor. The courtyard was still empty, but it would not be long before the workmen arrived. "What do you want?"

Malik realised he must finish their conversation swiftly, or risk being caught. He slapped Abu Firas in the face and wondered as he did so if the man recognised the gesture for the insult that it was. "Don't play for time. Stop your slander. Do not speak ill of the Assassins. You may preach on other matters. How you explain your change in heart is your concern. Not mine."

Abu Firas made no move to retaliate. He stared at Malik like a stunned sheep.

"Need I make my argument more pointed?" Malik dug his blade a fraction deeper.

The scholar yelped, attempted to shake his head, and came within an inch of slitting his own jugular. "No," he whispered.  

Malik drew back slightly just in case the scholar tried something stupid. Abu Firas did not move.  "The Assassins shall be watching," he said."

Abu Firas nodded.

Malik let the scholar go. He flung Al Mualim's purse at the scholar's feet and slunk away along the corridors of the _madrasa_. He was already on the other side of the building before he saw another man.

Abu Firas's morning lecture started late that day, and the scholar was unusually unprepared once he had arrived.  Malik took a seat in the front row; close enough to see the small incision upon Abu Firas's throat, as if the scholar had cut himself while shaving. He sharpened his stylus with a short, curved dagger, but took no notes.

 It was fair to say that the scholar's lecture lacked the fury of his previous speeches. He preached a short and moderate sermon about the proper distribution of _zakat_ between the poor, and left early and without taking questions. Malik was a little disappointed. He had thought that Abu Firas might have hired guards to protect him, and had prepared for the eventuality with the dagger in his sash and another pair hidden in his boots. He need not have worried. The dagger and the purse between them were a sure antidote to Abu Firas's poison.

He walked up to the scholar once the lecture was over and said "An enlightening sermon. Safety and peace be upon you."

Abu Firas nodded. His face was pale.

Malik held out his right hand and watched the scholar recoil. He thanked Abu Firas politely for his speech and walked away.

He left the brown eagle's feather behind him on the flagstones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch6.  
> Abu Firas's tale is inspired by the real-life story of Fakh al-Din al-Razi, a scholar from Rayy whose anti-Assassin teachings were much admired by everyone except the Assassins themselves. A hapless fidai'in was sent to enrol in his classes and remained there for seven months before bribing/threatening al-Razi into changing his topics. This seemed rather extreme, so I changed it to one month.  
> The words of Abu Firas are heavily adapted from contemporary anti-Assassin teachings. Malik is not impressed.  
> Mawali: a non-Arab Muslim, usually a Persian, Kurd or Turk.  
> Zellj: terracotta tilework made from enamel chips. The use of zellj in this story is wildly anachronistic, but the first madrasa I ever visited was in Morocco and my mental image of the place persists.  
> Zakat: charitable distribution of alms among the needy.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik learns his place.

After This Age

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

Chapter Seven

_Damascus, 1183._

Malik's triumph spoiled like milk when he returned to the Damascus Assassin's bureau and found Altaïr waiting there.  The other Assassin said nothing as Malik made his report to the _rafiq._    

The _rafiq_ , a cheery soul, received Malik's news with good humour. "Well done!" he said. "You have my thanks and my respect. A difficult mission, carried out with subtlety. Abu Firas shall not bother the Brotherhood now."

Malik nodded. He wanted to ask what Altaïr was doing in the Bureau, but decided it was none of his business. He would rather have met a dozen other Assassins than Altaïr. They had never been good comrades. Altaïr had passed his initiation a full season before Malik, and he never had ceased to remind Malik of the fact. He was a better swordsman than Malik; more skilled in every way save scholarship. But Altaïr was reckless, and he held the Creed in contempt.

The Assassin's Creed preached peace above all other things. It taught its followers to hide their true natures and to carry out their missions with a minimum of disruption. It was a subtle art that Malik excelled in.  There was certainly an art to the sort of flamboyant assassinations Altaïr preferred, but there was no subtlety at all.

_Rather like the man himself_ , Malik thought.

The _rafiq_ straightened the feathers that stood in a jar upon the wide counter of the bureau. "Make yourself comfortable," he said. "I have a message to send, and you'll have to return to Masyaf soon enough. Take a moment of rest."

Malik nodded.

The _rafiq_ gathered some things and left the bureau as Malik looked around the small room. Altaïr showed no sign of moving. Malik sighed and headed for the courtyard, unwilling to spend any more time with Altaïr than was strictly necessary. He was halfway to the curtained doorway when Altaïr said scathingly "A difficult mission? Intimidation is not difficult, Malik. You always did fight with words."

"The difference between us," retorted Malik "is that you think that is an insult."

Altaïr snorted. "Nobody with honour would have waited as you did."

"I was ordered to intimidate," Malik said sharply. "Killing would have gone against my orders. Besides, _you_ take too many risks."

"And _you_ are far too cautious. A true Assassin does not hesitate."

"A true Assassin considers his actions carefully," said Malik.

"A true Assassin does not waste time with _words,_ " said Altaïr.

Malik shrugged. "Well, I will not waste more of your time. Although I hear that the _rafiq_ here would not let you enter the bureau on your last mission, until you lost the guards."

Altaïr's fists clenched. "Where did you hear that?"

Malik smiled. "So my words are of some interest after all?"

It was forbidden for Assassins to draw steel upon each other except in training, but Malik would have sworn from Altaïr's expression that the other Assassin was at least considering it.

"Who told you that? Kadar? I'll-"

Malik remembered too late that Kadar had been partnered with Altaïr in his last mission. He interrupted quickly, hoping to deflect Altaïr's anger from his brother. "Everyone knows you never follow the Creed."

"I think for myself," Altaïr growled. His face had slipped back into its usual stony mask, as was its way. His expression looked impervious, but Malik had learned through years of practice that cracks would appear if you only chipped away at Altaïr long enough.

"Not well," he said.

"At least my sword is faster than my tongue," Altaïr snapped.

"My sword is fast enough," Malik said. He backed away a step and tried to look casual about it. Finding a safe distance was always difficult with Altaïr. "At least I follow the Creed Al Mualim taught us. Do you?"

"You have not yet killed a man," Altaïr said in a voice like a knife to the back.

Malik shrugged. "That does not mean anything. I was not ordered to kill."

"I trained to be an Assassin, not a scholar," said Altaïr.

Malik snorted. The other students said that Altaïr had only trained his tongue to foreign languages so he could be rude in all of them. He was far too impatient to make a good scholar-and he knew it. And Malik knew that Altaïr hated to be thought unskilled at anything.

"You have to know enough to find your target first," he said.

"Ours is the work of the knife." Altaïr said. His face was flushed, and his eyebrows met in a scowl under his white hood. "Not the pen."

"You do not think about your actions," said Malik.

Altaïr settled himself back onto the cushions. "I will not take criticism from a man less skilled than I," he said.

"It is not you I care about," Malik persisted, ignoring the insult. "Others follow you, and are cut down. You do nothing to prevent this."

"Should I? Their lack of skill is no reflection upon mine."

"Those men were lost because of you!"

"That is not your concern!" snapped Altaïr. He stood in one smooth motion and took a step into the room, kicking a cushion aside. "Unless-unless it is your brother than you speak of."

"My brother is none of your concern!"

"It _is_ my concern. You dare to speak to me of the Creed, Malik? Very well. What of your brother? Is that not against our Creed?"

"It is not a central tenet," Malik said. It was a weak parry, and he knew it.

"That does not matter. Your actions run counter to the Creed. It is a weakness, and everyone knows of it. If Kadar cannot act as an Assassin should, then he is no Assassin at all."

"If _you_ cannot act as an Assassin should, maybe _you_ are no Assassin," Malik said. He stepped forwards, one hand on his knife, his eyes on Altaïr's. Altaïr's wrist flexed, the hidden blade dropping to stab air.

Malik never knew just how far their fight would have gone had the _rafiq_ of Damascus not arrived at that very moment.  Both Malik and Altaïr were so focused on their fight that neither of them caught sight or sound of the _rafiq_ until he stepped between them and cried "Enough!"

Malik's hand left his dagger. " _Rafiq_ ," he said, as Altaïr's hidden blade vanished into his sleeve.

The old _rafiq_ shook his head as he surveyed the scene. "I leave two Assassins in the bureau for a moment," he said, "and return to find a pair of brawling boys.  You have both disgraced yourselves and the Order. Malik, you will be a good Assassin once you learn to hold your tongue and keep your temper. Altaïr, you will be a good Assassin once you learn to act with some discretion. Neither of you will be Assassins for long unless you learn these lessons!"

Altaïr cleared his throat. " _Rafiq_ -"

"Silence!"The _rafiq_ slammed his open hand down on the counter. The jar of eagle feathers rattled. "I would set you both some menial task as punishment, but Al Mualim has sent word that the pair of you should travel immediately to Masyaf." He smiled. "There are horses waiting at the Bab Kisan gate. Take them and head for the fortress by the most direct route."

"Together?" Malik asked cautiously. His only consolation was that Altaïr looked even less impressed with the news than Malik felt.

The _rafiq_ folded his arms. "Indeed."   

"I have no need for an escort." Altaïr pulled his hood across his face and looked down his nose at Malik.

"You have much need to act according to my orders, Altaïr," the _rafiq_ said.

"I have never failed to complete my mission." Altaïr said defiantly.

"No. You have never failed in your mission, only in your disregard of our ways." The _rafiq_ turned to Malik before Altaïr had a chance to reply. "You are silent for once, Malik. Do you have any questions for me?"

Malik was not so foolish to contradict the _rafiq_.  "I do not."

The _rafiq_ grunted. "Go, then. Do not stand upon my patience. Your journey to Masyaf will take you several days, even by the fastest route. I suggest you use the time to settle your disagreement. Save your knives for our enemies. Remember what the Assassins fight for! Peace, in all things."

Malik and Altaïr bowed. "Safety and peace."

Altaïr did not speak again until they were outside the city walls, and even then it was only to curse at his horse. He kicked the beast to a gallop and vanished down the road in a cloud of sepia dust as travellers and merchants fled for their lives. As Malik followed, he was pleased to see that he was still the better rider of the pair.

_But then_ , he thought, _a sack of rice would be considered a better rider than Altaïr._

It was a very small consolation.

He caught up with Altaïr at the next village and they headed north in silence. Altaïr set a fast pace, and Malik did not care to argue. As far as he was concerned, the less time he spent with Altaïr the better.  Some way before Safita Altaïr reined his horse off the trail, causing Malik to speak directly to him for the first time in several days.

"Altaïr, Masyaf is that way."

Altaïr turned in his saddle. "The _rafiq_ told us to take the most direct route. We'll cut across the mountains. It will be quicker that way."

"The roads are easier by the coast."

"And full of guards. You can travel alone if you like. I'm heading through the mountains."

Malik looked over at Altaïr, and up at the hills. They were still several days' travel to the south of Masyaf. The foothills of the Orontes rose in gentle waves to the north, their slopes dotted with thorns and oleander and flocks of grazing sheep. The mountains behind them crested in minarets of red stone. The high country was perilous and difficult to navigate. Malik knew that it would be a hard journey.

"Very well," he said.

Altaïr nodded and nudged the flanks of his horse with his feels. The horse swished its tail and started up the slope.

Malik followed.

They were only two days' ride from Masyaf when Malik crested a low saddle in the hills. A long river gully stretched below them, bone-dry and choked with fallen rocks worn smooth by winter floods. Tall pinnacles rose to stab the air like knives of stone. A hawk screamed high above his head.

The sky was the same faded blue that Malik still saw in his dreams.

_I know this place,_ thought Malik. _I know these hills much better than Altaïr. I should have recognised the signs long before._

He was at the campground in the rocks he had left nine years before.

It was much smaller that he remembered.

He reined his horse to a halt and stared down at the rocky slopes, searching for the only patch of flat ground in the valley. The ledge was right where he had known it would be. It was just wide enough to pitch a tent. There was no tent. There were no people. A few tumbled rocks and a tattered thorn-bush were the only signs a camp had ever been there.

Malik kicked his horse down towards the campground. The bay mare picked her way carefully down the slope between the stones. Malik let her take her time. He slid from her back and searched the campsite carefully. He was not sure what he expected to find, but he found nothing. A few of the stones might once have been smoothed to build a wall, and there was a twist of fibre that could have been the remnants of a rope or else a dried grass stem, but nothing else. If Malik's clan had ever been there, they were not now.  He had no idea where they might have gone.

He leaned back against the sun-warmed red rocks and watched as Altaïr's white hood crested the ridge, and his white horse followed, scrambling atop the ridge in an avalanche of sliding stones. Altaïr reined to a halt as he saw Malik below him on the ledge. "Why did we climb so far?" he asked. "What are you doing down there? Your horse will break her leg. It was a foolish idea."

"Yes," Malik said. "It was."

"I'm heading down the valley." Altaïr pointed the way. "We're nearly at Masyaf."

"You go first," said Malik. "I'll follow you."

Altaïr shrugged and kicked his white mare on.

Malik knelt down to sift through the gravel and found only dust. There were no scraps of wool upon on the ground, no charcoal, no sheep droppings. There was no sign that a family had even camped there. He brought a handful of earth to his nose and sniffed the dirt. He smelt nothing but the scents he had brought with him; old leather, bleached wool, and horse-sweat.

_I should tell Kadar of this. What will he say? Likely nothing. He was younger than I when we left for Masyaf._

Malik watched Altaïr pick his way down the dry canyon. His white robe looked like a scrap of wool against the red rocks. He wondered whether or not the al-Sayf clan would have been proud of what their sons had become. There was little chance of finding them. Dead or gone, it made little difference.

_I am an Assassin. It will do. It will have to._

There was a certain terrible inevitability to his family's disappearance. It felt as if the empty camp had always been waiting for him to find, like their family had packed up and left the moment Malik and Kadar had walked away nine years before. But old loyalties had faded with the years, and Malik found he did not mind as much as he once might have done. The Assassins answered to no clan. They believed a man's worth lay in his deeds, not in his bloodline.      

Malik's horse shoved him in the back with her nose and whinnied. Altaïr was already out of sight, but Malik heard an answering whinny as Altaïr's white mare neighed in reply. Malik's mare pranced, eager to go down and follow her companion. Red dust coated her legs up to the fetlocks, and her shoes struck sparks from the stone.

Malik was much less eager to rejoin Altaïr, but he knew his task too well. He called the mare to him and mounted.  

He made good time descending the gully, and never looked back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch7:  
> A lot of things about Altaïr annoy Malik, and vice versa. This is a very stupid thing to do, but they're only eighteen.
> 
> Yes, it is the right place, but who knows? Nomads don't stay in one place for very long.


End file.
